


alcohol, fights and everything nice

by charlieknuckles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consent, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Resolved Sexual Tension, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, most of this fic is just them fighting but like in a sexy way, there's so much pinning each other to surfaces here, they're only tipsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29847873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlieknuckles/pseuds/charlieknuckles
Summary: Slightly drunk Sherlock and John get into a street fight and, naturally, all that unresolved sexual tension gets resolved and Sherlocks ends up on his knees.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 49





	alcohol, fights and everything nice

Just to clarify, John wasn’t gay, as he stated many times before. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but all his life he’d felt physically and romantically attracted to women and women solely. Up until now, apparently, as Sherlock Holmes was most certainly not one.

Sherlock was brilliant and all, solving so many cases, so many mysteries and answering so many questions, but his real forte was just confusing things. Really, John’s life was so much simpler without him. No sprinting after a man with legs two times longer than his, constantly having to run his mind to keep after said man’s one, no being chased by cereal killers. So, so confusing, that when John was faced with the detective’s piercing gaze he felt weak in the knees and constantly found himself jealous of Sherlock’s hands when they ruffled his curly raven hair, got hypnotized by the way Sherlock's lips moved as he spoke, the way his hips swayed as he walked.

Could the famous Mr. Holmes solve this mystery too? He briefly entertained himself with the idea - sitting down on the wooden chair that so many clients sat on before and spilling his heart out to a sociopath, albeit a well functioning one - _You see, mister detective, recently you’ve been getting me all hot and bothered. I’m not gay, but I desperately want to kiss you every time I so much as glance at your lips. Which has also happened a disturbing amount of times…_ \- yes that seems about right, John cringed internally.

Cut to present - he’s in a bar with the said detective, who is currently confusing one of the bar’s apparent patrons too, sitting smugly with his lady-friend. Sherlock just had to strike up a conversation by saying something along the lines of - Your girlfriend just hooked up with someone in the club's bathroom. You see, the way she's holding the purse says it all, actually,- and getting socked in the jaw. You know, like a normal person would.

They were in the bar with Lestrade and a handful of other detectives, celebrating after solving a particularly difficult case. It was rather unusual for Sherlock, of all people, to invite people to bar to do something so mandatory as celebrate with his “coworkers”, but apparently he was planning on conducting another one of his experiments. Whatever it was, the police officers decided to risk getting drugged by Sherlock if it meant free drinks.

Thanks to John, Sherlock had learned to refrain from making deductions for unwilling people just to display his cleverness, throughout all the time they spent together. Apparently, tipsy Sherlock was finding that rather difficult and even John wasn't fast enough to stop it. Really, why does he always have to keep up with the madman?

Anyways, now the detective is getting a chance to display his combat abilities to a positively rageful man, shouting “Bastard! Don’t you dare speak that way of Tabby!”. John figured that Sherlock would have no trouble beating the mountain of muscle while sober: he was quick on his feet and had often surprising stamina. Right now though, the alcohol was serving to make him just a little slow, not as quick to duck and dodge and punches of his own weaker than usual, probably serving more damage to his knuckles than his opponent. John gripped his whiskey glass tighter and sighed. It’s not like any member of their company were planning to do anything. They were enjoying themselves, the bastards, after having more than a few drinks of their own, neglecting their officer of the state duties for the pleasure of seeing Sherlock _perform_. 

John, despite his exasperation with the man, decided that he didn’t want his clever pretty boy face getting beaten to a pulp. He did enjoy looking at it, after all, even though he was tempted to give it a punch as well right about now. He sighed again, got up, caught Sherlock’s forearm mid-punch and basically dragged him outside, all while apologizing multiple times to the buff guy, whose girlfriend looked horrified and just slightly amused. He rolled back his sleeves in pride, seemingly satisfied and having taken that as a sign of victory.

“What are you doing, John?! I could’ve knocked a clean punch to his stomach my next four moves.” he huffed, visibly offended. Always the drama queen.

“Oh, calm down, hotshot. You’ll get the chance to prove that you're always right next time. I think it’s time we go home.” John barely refrained from gritting his teeth while saying those words.

“Why am I picking up some sarcasm here? It’s true, I'm right more often than any of you incompetents could ever be.” he cocked his head to the side sardonically “I wonder how it is, not understanding things, almost like you're a _baby_. Honestly, I'm a gift to all of you, so why can't people just listen to me and do as I say? Why do I have to explain myself?” he gestured forcefully to himself.

John rubbed his brow. He really didn't have the energy right now to deal with Sherlock in all his Sherlockness. Right now, he just wanted to fold the noodle of a man into a taxi and get home.

“Hey, hey, what do you think you're doing?” Sherlock continues to protest as John resumed dragging him away from the bar by his forearm. “I’m not done yet. That halfwit thinks he’s won, I have to go back in there.” Sherlock paused writhing out of John’s hold. “Let me go, John.” he used that commanding tone of his that could turn almost anyone into Sherlock’s servant in an instant. John fought the shiver that was threatening to run down his spine and didn’t meet the other man’s gaze.

“It’s time to go home. Please, just listen.” his voice sounded strained with contained emotion.

Of course, it’s not like Sherlock ever listens to him and he started struggling again full force. To stop the slippery man wriggling out of his grasp John rather firmly pushed him towards the nearest wall and pinned him to it by his shoulders in a few fluid motions.

“Oh, come on, John, this is ridiculous. I know what I’m doing.” Sherlock was really starting to get angry, only proving by his moodiness that he’s really too intoxicated to go bawling with men twice his width.

“Sherlock. Shut up.” John could really feel his head pounding now. Bloody hell, he could really take an aspirin right about now.

“Make me.” Sherlock said flatly, boldly, maintaining eye contact.

“What?” another one of those times when John couldn’t keep up with Sherlock’s antics. Just what exactly did he want him to do? Surely, even Sherlock had to be aware of what those words imply, right? _Right?_

“Make me shut up, doctor." after a brief pause of sharp eye contact, he opened his lips to speak "Oh wait, that's right, you can’t make me do anything! Remind me again why I have to listen to you?” and once again Sherlock ruined the moment, making John's blood boil with something like genuine anger.

This time, when Sherlock started struggling again, John had to pin Sherlock’s wrists above his head to keep him in place. If John had been feeling a bit cloudy-minded before, he sure as hell felt more sober now. Sober and painfully aware that he was pinning the subject of his adorations to a dirty wall right this moment. He pushed that feeling deep down, willing the stubborn butterflies in his stomach go away and instead let his exasperation and anger take over.

“Oh, I can make you do something, alright?” John said and delivered a clean punch to his stomach. He almost didn't find it in him to care when Sherlock staggered to the side and his eyes widened in shock, lacking breath in his lungs for a moment. Almost.

The expression disappeared as soon as it came to be, instead letting a satisfied and somewhat cruel smirk spread over Sherlock's face, all teeth. "I knew you had it in you, Johnny!” He straightened up and swung a wide hit to John's side.

“You don't know anything!” he snarled, only having briefly staggered and tried to remember what he learned at the military. The muscle memory came easily and he took Sherlock on as an equal, having the advantage of superior sobriety. They threw punches and kicks and danced around each other, neither of them really registered for how long.

Eventually Sherlock reverted to dirty tactics and bit John’s hand, making him yelp and Holmes got the opportunity to pin John's both wrists to the wall this time. They were both panting, and Sherlock ran his eyes over John’s body, over the splatter of blood on his white shirt collar, over the bruise on his cheek, the skin on his knuckles, split open. There was a strange shine in his eyes as seemed to get lost in his thoughts, so John yanked his wrists out of Sherlock’s grasp and flipped them, firmly holding his colleague to the wall, pining his hips with his own and _oh_.

_Oh that was definitely a boner_. John looked down, then snapped his eyes back to Sherlock, expecting some sort of explanation to fall from his lips. But it never did. The taller male just met his gaze and seemed to melt under the pressure, then slowly and purposefully _rolled his hips_.

John supposed this could be just a tactic to make him pull away, but he didn’t. He was frozen in place, feeling like his ribs were curling in on themselves. _Damn it, Sherlock doesn’t get to play with his feelings like this_. He looked so good too, with his lip split and curly hair tousled, sweaty, a flush to his face, his expression open, lust clearly shining through in the furrow of his brows and the darkening of his eyes.

“Sherlock, what-” John started, but he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, thousands of questions running through his head.

“You think too loud.” Sherlock leaned his head forward, away from the wall, almost touching their foreheads and tilting his head to the side, breathing on John’s face. “Kiss me.”

“You-you’re drunk. We should go home.” he stammered, and it really didn’t sound convincing. John wanted this to be real so much, but it _couldn't be_ , this was surely just another one of Sherlock’s cruel ideas. He didn’t even feel angry anymore, just miserable and hurt and _goddamnit_ hopeful too, and more turned on then he’d like to admit.

“John, John, _John_. Listen to me. I’m not nearly as drunk as you think I am.” he placed his hands on the back of John’s neck. His heart was hammering so hard he was sure it would just give in and stop completely. “I know what I’m asking for. I’m not blind, either. It’s okay, you can kiss me, I want you to.”

Sherlock was rather insensitive, like, most of the time, so John was taken aback by his soothing words. He focused on the throbbing pain littered all over his body from their little brawn, on the fingers, so gently now holding onto his neck, on the bleeding wound on Sherlock’s lips, on how their warmth intermingled. It all seemed okay then and he connected their lips.

His face had begun to freeze, so the kiss felt unbelievably warm and he sighed from the pleasant sensation. Sherlock opened his mouth and he tasted blood, copper and so familiar. John felt Sherlock’s tongue pushing in and he groaned softly, feeling a twinge of arousal at the action. Sherlock rolled his hips again and John had to grip his shirt. The next time they moved together and Sherlock let out a low moan.

John pressed his hand on Sherlock’s ribs and there must’ve been a fresh bruise there, because the taller male gasped lightly and bit John’s lip rather harshly as if in retaliation. The kiss was fast and hot and greedy, all clash of teeth and tongue, panting grinding. When John’s pants were feeling a bit too tight though, he forced himself to pull away from their intoxicating dance.

“Damn it, Sherlock, any one of the cops could step outside and see us.” his voice was rough and he was panting, other things very much on his mind. Their eyes met and he noticed that the other man’s pupils were dilated, more so than was necessary for the dim lighting of the late evening streets. He was given a half-hearted glare and Sherlock slipped away and pulled John by the arm, deeper into the alleyways.

“I assume you’re aware that I know all of London’s streets like the back of my hand, right?” he raised his eyebrows teasingly. John scoffed and let himself be pulled along deep into an alleyway, taking turns and turns until finally coming to stop at a dead end, where a chainlink fence was blocking their way. Then he was being pushed against it and Sherlock was sinking to his knees and it was all so sudden that John could only exhale shakily, sounding too desperate.

Sherlock made quick work with his zipper, apparently having sobered up enough to not even struggle. He pulled out John’s already half-hard cock and paused in his rush. “I haven’t, er, exactly done this in a while.” he said as if in a warning and placed a cold hand on John’s member, starting to stroke in a slow, steady rhythm.

“You don’t have to? I wouldn’t want you to think that I’m forcing you or-” he forgot the end of that sentence as Sherlock took him into his mouth without warning. It wasn't a very strong sentence anyways. John moaned, seemingly boosting Sherlock’s confidence and, combined with the alcohol in his system, he felt fully encouraged, sinking deeper on his cock, using his hand to stimulate the parts he couldn’t reach. John’s hand rushed to the other male’s dark curls and he gripped them tightly, not the first time tonight.

Sherlock flicked his tongue around John's member, rolling it with curious expertise. John would’ve given it some more thought if it didn’t feel so bloody good at the time. His knees were weak but he was gripping the fence behind him with his free hand like it was a lifeline and Sherlock was somewhat using his bodyweight to pin him, contributing to John’s balance. He should've known what a tease Sherlock is, he _thought about it_ , in the privacy of his bedroom and with the company of his hand. It was better than he ever dared hope, it felt like too much yet not enough, their closeness electric, making his nerves dance. Sherlock bobbed his head and worked his hand and it was all _perfect_.

“You’re so good at this” John’s voice sounded rough and strange to his own ears. “Fuck, Sherlock, how are you so good at this?” Sherlock gave a muffled moan, sending vibrations through his throat and John looked down to see that Sherlock was palming himself through his jeans and if that wasn't the hottest thing that he's ever seen -

“You look gorgeous like this” John decided to ramble on, because Sherlock seemed to like it. “On your knees, in some dirty alleyway, sucking me off like a champ.” Sherlock hollowed out his cheeks and went faster, deeper, releasing a low groan. “I’ve wanted this for a long time, you know?” Sherlock looked up at him with that burning, calculating gaze, but John didn’t squirm this time and held his gaze. He felt a demanding burn low in his stomach and knew that he was close already, embarrassingly fast, but he never expected to last long in these circumstances.

“You with your clever mouth, pretty lips. This is the kind of stuff I imagine to warm me up” John would've laughed at his own confession, but Sherlock sped up, no longer teasing at all, with a clear goal in mind and John no longer felt like he could breathe normally. Sherlock took the entire length in his mouth, furrowing his dark brows and groaned again. And really, how could he last a minute longer?

“Sherlock, fuck, I’m about to -” a heat washed over him, and he threw his head back, letting out something between a hiss and a moan. He felt absolutely filthy and blissful and he loved it with every fiber of his being as he came so hard that his toes curled. Sherlock held him up by his hips, keeping John from falling to his knees and swallowed John’s seed, a lazy grin plastered to his face. He tucked him in and zipped up his jeans with care and stood up slowly, seemingly keeping their bodies flushed together with all his effort.

He wasn’t sure who moved first to connect their lips, but they did, and it was slow and rough and he could taste himself of Sherlock's tongue and he felt almost ready to go again. Judging by the hardness pressing into his thigh, his new-found lover shouldn’t object. John moved slowly, though, carefully, afraid that this moment would break, that they’d walk out of this alley lit by a single street light and Sherlock would come back to his senses and regret it. John's hands were shaking and he _did not_ whimper as he tried to hold Sherlock with all the tenderness in the world.

His fingers were getting cold and he was puffing out a white cloud with every breath, so John pulled back slightly, pressing their foreheads together and holding the raven haired man oh so close. “So? Release enough pent-up energy to take off your crown and go home?” he asked carefully, testing the waters.

To his absolute relief, Sherlock chuckled, replying is the same breathless tone “Yes, I rather think so” and looked at John so fondly that he knew then and there that it was going to be okay, that no matter how they felt in the morning Sherlock wouldn’t push him away, wouldn't block him out like he had the habit of doing. They stepped out into the street and looking at each other's faces, illuminated properly and Sherlock’s eyes twinkled and shone and John couldn’t help but grin like an idiot.

**Author's Note:**

> this was so satisfying to write, although i procrastinated a lot and it took a ridiculous while. thank you for reading!! kudos and comments are greatly appreciated :)


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